The God of Small Things

by Arundhati Roy

  Comrade Pillai’s mother, a minute old lady in a brown blouse and off-white mundu sat on the edge of the high wooden bed that was pushed against the wall, her feet dangling high above the floor. She wore a thin white towel arranged diagonally over her chest and slung over one shoulder. A funnel of mosquitoes, like an inverted dunce cap, whined over her head. She sat with her cheek resting in the palm of her hand, bunching together all the wrinkles on that side of her face. Every inch of her, even her wrists and ankles, were wrinkled. Only the skin on her throat was taut and smooth, stretched over an enormous goiter. Her fountain of youth. She stared vacantly at the wall opposite her, rocking herself gently, grunting regular, rhythmic little grunts, like a bored passenger on a long bus journey.

  Comrade Pillai’s SSLC, BA and MA certificates were framed and hung on the wall behind her head.

  On another wall was a framed photograph of Comrade Pillai garlanding Comrade E. M. S. Namboodiripad. There was a microphone on a stand, shining in the foreground with a sign that said Ajantha.

  The rotating table fan by the bed measured out its mechanical breeze in exemplary, democratic turns—first lifting what was left of old Mrs. Pillai’s hair, then Chacko’s. The mosquitoes dispersed and re-assembled tirelessly.

  Through the window Chacko could see the tops of buses, luggage in their luggage racks, as they thundered by. A jeep with a loudspeaker drove past, blaring a Marxist Party song whose theme was Unemployment. The chorus was in English, the rest of it in Malayalam.

  No vacancy! No vacancy!

  Wherever in the world a poor man goes,

  No no no no no vacancy!

  “No” pronounced to rhyme with door.

  Kalyani returned with a stainless-steel glass of filter coffee and a stainless-steel plate of banana chips (bright yellow with little black seeds in the center) for Chacko.

  “He has gone to Olassa. He’ll be back any time now,” she said. She referred to her husband as addeham, which was the respectful form of “he,” whereas “he” called her “edi,” which was, approximately, “Hey, you!”

  She was a lush, beautiful woman with golden-brown skin and huge eyes. Her long frizzy hair was damp and hung loose down her back, plaited only at the very end. It had wet the back of her tight, deep-red blouse and stained it a tighter, deeper red. From where the sleeves ended, her soft arm-flesh swelled and dropped over her dimpled elbows in a sumptuous bulge. Her white mundu and kavani were crisp and ironed. She smelled of sandalwood and the crushed green gram that she used instead of soap. For the first time in years, Chacko watched her without the faintest stirring of sexual desire. He had a wife (Ex-wife, Chacko!) at home. With arm freckles and back freckles. With a blue dress and legs underneath.

  Young Lenin appeared at the door in red Stretchlon shorts. He stood on one thin leg like a stork and twisted the pink lace curtain into a pole, staring at Chacko with his mother’s eyes. He was six now, long past the age of pushing things up his nose.

  “Mon, go and call Latha,” Mrs. Pillai said to him.

  Lenin remained where he was, and, still staring at Chacko, screeched effortlessly, in the way only children can.

  “Latha! Latha! You’re wanted!”

  “Our niece from Kottayam. His elder brother’s daughter,” Mrs. Pillai explained. “She won the First Prize for Elocution at the Youth Festival in Trivandrum last week.”

  A combative-looking young girl of about twelve or thirteen appeared through the lace curtain. She wore a long, printed skirt that reached all the way down to her ankles and a short, waist-length white blouse with darts that made room for future breasts. Her oiled hair was parted into two halves. Each of her tight, shining plaits was looped over and tied with ribbons so that they hung down on either side of her face like the outlines of large, drooping ears that hadn’t been colored in yet.

  “D’you know who this is?” Mrs. Pillai asked Latha.

  Latha shook her head.

  “Chacko saar. Our factory Modalali.”

  Latha stared at him with a composure and a lack of curiosity unusual in a thirteen-year-old.

  “He studied in London Oxford,” Mrs. Pillai said. “Will you do your recitation for him?”

  Latha complied without hesitation. She planted her feet slightly apart.

  “Respected Chairman”—she bowed to Chacko—“mydearjudges and”—she looked around at the imaginary audience crowded into the small, hot room—“beloved friends.” She paused theatrically.

  “Today I would like to recite to you a poem by Sir Walter Scott entitled ‘Lochinvar.’” She clasped her hands behind her back. A film fell over her eyes. Her gaze was fixed unseeingly just above Chacko’s head. She swayed slightly as she spoke. At first Chacko thought it was a Malayalam translation of “Lochinvar.” The words ran into each other. Like in Malayalam, the last syllable of one word attached itself to the first syllable of the next. It was rendered at remarkable speed:

  “O, young Lochin varhas scum out of the vest

  Through wall the vide Border his teed was the bes

  Tand savissgood broadsod heweapon sadnun,

  Nhe rod all unarmed, and he rod all lalone….”

  The poem was interspersed with grunts from the old lady on the bed, which no one except Chacko seemed to notice.

  “Nhe swam the Eske river where ford there was none;

  Buttair be alighted at Netherby Gate,

  The bridehad cunsended, the gallantcame late.”

  Comrade Pillai arrived mid-poem; a sheen of sweat glazed his skin, his mundu was folded up over his knees, dark sweatstains spread under his Terylene armpits. In his late thirties, he was an unathletic, sallow little man. His legs were already spindly and his taut, distended belly, like his tiny mother’s goiter, was completely at odds with the rest of his thin, narrow body and alert face. As though something in their family genes had bestowed on them compulsory bumps that appeared randomly on different parts of their bodies.

  His neat pencil mustache divided his upper lip horizontally into half and ended exactly in line with the ends of his mouth. His hairline had begun to recede and he made no attempt to hide it. His hair was oiled and combed back off his forehead. Clearly youth was not what he was after. He had the easy authority of the Man of the House. He smiled and nodded a greeting to Chacko, but did not acknowledge the presence of his wife or his mother.

  Latha’s eyes flicked towards him for permission to continue with the poem. It was granted. Comrade Pillai took off his shirt, rolled it into a ball and wiped his armpits with it. When he finished, Kalyani took it from him and held it as though it was a gift. A bouquet of flowers. Comrade Pillai, in his sleeveless vest, sat on a folding chair and pulled his left foot up onto his right thigh. Through the rest of his niece’s recitation, he sat staring meditatively down at the floor, his chin cupped in the palm of his hand, tapping his right foot in time with the meter and cadence of the poem. With his other hand he massaged the exquisitely arched instep of his left foot.

  When Latha finished, Chacko applauded with genuine kindness. She did not acknowledge his applause with even a flicker of a smile. She was like an East German swimmer at a local competition. Her eyes were firmly fixed on Olympic Gold. Any lesser achievement she took as her due. She looked at her uncle for permission to leave the room. Comrade Pillai beckoned to her and whispered in her ear.

  “Go and tell Pothachen and Mathukutty that if they want to see me, they should come immediately.”

  “No comrade, really … I won’t have anything more,” Chacko said, assuming that Comrade Pillai was sending Latha off for more snacks. Comrade Pillai, grateful for the misunderstanding, perpetuated it.

  “No no no. Hah! What is this? Edi Kalyani, bring a plate of those avalose oondas.”

  As an aspiring politician, it was essential for Comrade Pillai to be seen in his chosen constituency as a man of influence. He wanted to use Chacko’s visit to impress local supplicants and Party Workers. Pothachen and Mathukutty, the men he had sent for, were village
rs who had asked him to use his connections at the Kottayam hospital to secure nursing jobs for their daughters. Comrade Pillai was keen that they be seen waiting outside his house for their appointment with him. The more people that were seen waiting to meet him, the busier he would appear, the better the impression he would make. And if the waiting people saw that the factory Modalali himself had come to see him, on his turf, he knew it would give off all sorts of useful signals.

  “So! comrade!” Comrade Pillai said, after Latha had been dispatched and the avalose oondas had arrived. “What is the news? How is your daughter adjusting?” He insisted on speaking to Chacko in English.

  “Oh fine. She’s fast asleep right now.”

  “Oho. Jet lag, I suppose,” Comrade Pillai said, pleased with himself for knowing a thing or two about international travel.

  “What’s happening in Olassa? A Party meeting?” Chacko asked.

  “Oh, nothing like that. My sister Sudha met with fracture sometime back,” Comrade Pillai said, as though Fracture were a visiting dignitary. “So I took her to Olassa Moos for some medications. Some oils and all that. Her husband is in Patna, so she is alone at inlaws’ place.”

  Lenin gave up his post at the doorway, placed himself between his father’s knees and picked his nose.

  “What about a poem from you, young man?” Chacko said to him. “Doesn’t your father teach you any?”

  Lenin stared at Chacko, giving no indication that he had either heard or understood what Chacko said.

  “He knows everything,” Comrade Pillai said. “He is genius. In front of visitors only he’s quiet.”

  Comrade Pillai jiggled Lenin with his knees.

  “Lenin Mon, tell Comrade Uncle the one Pappa taught you. Friends Romans countrymen…”

  Lenin continued his nasal treasure hunt.

  “Come on, Mon, it’s only our Comrade Uncle—”

  Comrade Pillai tried to kick-start Shakespeare.

  “Friends Romans countrymen lend me your—.?”

  Lenin’s unblinking gaze remained on Chacko. Comrade Pillai tried again.

  “… Lend me your—.?”

  Lenin grabbed a handful of banana chips and bolted out of the front door. He began to race up and down the strip of front yard between the house and road, braying with an excitement that he couldn’t understand. When he had worked some of it off, his run turned into a breathless, high-kneed gallop.

  “lend me yaw YERS;”

  Lenin shouted from the yard, over the sound of a passing bus.

  “I cometoberry Caesar, not to praise him.

  Theevil that mendoo lives after them.

  The goodisoft interred with their bones;…”

  He shouted it fluently, without faltering once. Remarkable, considering he was only six and didn’t understand a word of what he was saying. Sitting inside, looking out at the little dust devil whirling in his yard (future service contractor with a baby and Bajaj scooter), Comrade Pillai smiled proudly.

  “He’s standing first in class. This year he will be getting double-promotion.”

  There was a lot of ambition packed into that hot little room.

  Whatever Comrade Pillai stored in his curtained cupboard, it wasn’t broken balsa airplanes.

  Chacko, on the other hand, from the moment he had entered the house, or perhaps from the moment Comrade Pillai had arrived, had undergone a curious process of invalidation. Like a general who had been stripped of his stars, he limited his smile. Contained his expansiveness. Anybody meeting him there for the first time might have thought him reticent. Almost timid.

  With a street-fighter’s unerring instincts, Comrade Pillai knew that his straitened circumstances (his small, hot house, his grunting mother, his obvious proximity to the toiling masses) gave him a power over Chacko that in those revolutionary times no amount of Oxford education could match.

  He held his poverty like a gun to Chacko’s head.

  Chacko brought out a crumpled piece of paper on which he had tried to sketch the rough layout for a new label that he wanted comrade K. N. M. Pillai to print. It was for a new product that Paradise Pickles & Preserves planned to launch in the spring. Synthetic Cooking Vinegar. Drawing was not one of Chacko’s strengths, but Comrade Pillai got the general gist. He was familiar with the logo of the kathakali dancer, the slogan under his skirt that said Emperors of the Realm of Taste (his idea) and the typeface they had chosen for Paradise Pickles & Preserves.

  “Design is same. Only difference is in text, I suppose,” Comrade Pillai said.

  “And the color of the border,” Chacko said. “Mustard instead of red.”

  Comrade Pillai pushed his spectacles up into his hair in order to read aloud the text. The lenses immediately grew fogged with hair oil.

  “Synthetic Cooking Vinegar,” he said. “This is all in caps, I suppose.”

  “Prussian Blue,” Chacko said.

  “Prepared from Acetic Acid?”

  “Royal blue,” Chacko said. “Like the one we did for green pepper in brine.”

  “Net Contents, Batch No., Mfg date, Expiry Date, Max Rtl Pr. Rs… same Royal Blue color but c and lc?”

  Chacko nodded.

  “We hereby certify that the vinegar in this bottle is warranted to be of the nature and quality which it purports to be. Ingredients: Water and Acetic Acid. This will be red color, I suppose.”

  Comrade Pillai used “I suppose” to disguise questions as statements. He hated asking questions unless they were personal ones. Questions signified a vulgar display of ignorance.

  By the time they finished discussing the label for the vinegar, Chacko and Comrade Pillai had each acquired personal mosquito funnels.

  They agreed on a delivery date.

  “So yesterday’s march was a success?” Chacko said, finally broaching the real reason for his visit.

  “Unless and until demands are met, comrade, we cannot say if it is Success or Non-success.”

  A pamphleteering inflection crept into Comrade Pillai’s voice. “Until then, struggle must continue.”

  “But Response was good,” Chacko prompted, trying to speak in the same idiom.

  “That is of course there,” Comrade Pillai said. “Comrades have presented Memorandum to Party High Command. Now let us see. We have only to wait and watch.”

  “We passed them on the road yesterday,” Chacko said. “The procession.”

  “On the way to Cochin, I suppose,” Comrade Pillai said. “But according to Party sources Trivandrum Response was much more better.”

  “There were thousands of comrades in Cochin too,” Chacko said. “In fact my niece saw our young Velutha among them.”

  “Oho. I see,” Comrade Pillai was caught off guard. Velutha was a topic he had planned to broach with Chacko. Some day. Eventually. But not this straightforwardly. His mind hummed like the table fan. He wondered whether to make use of the opening that was being offered to him, or to leave it for another day. He decided to use it now.

  “Yes. He is good worker,” he said thoughtfully. “Highly intelligent.”

  “He is,” Chacko said. “An excellent carpenter with an engineer’s mind. If it wasn’t for—”

  “Not that worker, comrade,” Comrade Pillai said. “Party worker.”

  Comrade Pillai’s mother continued to rock and grunt. There was something reassuring about the rhythm of the grunts. Like the ticking of a clock. A sound you hardly noticed, but would miss if it stopped.

  “Ah, I see. So he’s a card-holder?”

  “Oh yes,” Comrade Pillai said softly. “Oh yes.”

  Perspiration trickled through Chacko’s hair. He felt as though a company of ants was touring his scalp. He scratched his head for a long time, with both his hands. Moving his whole scalp up and down.

  “Oru kaaryam parayattey?” Comrade Pillai switched to Malayalam and a confiding, conspiratorial voice. “I’m speaking as a friend, keto. Off the record.”

  Before he continued, Comrade Pillai studied Chacko
, trying to gauge his response. Chacko was examining the gray paste of sweat and dandruff lodged under his fingernails.

  “That Paravan is going to cause trouble for you,” he said. “Take it from me… get him a job somewhere else. Send him off.”

  Chacko was puzzled at the turn the conversation had taken. He had only intended to find out what was happening, where things stood. He had expected to encounter antagonism, even confrontation, and instead was being offered sly, misguided collusion.

  “Send him away? But why? I have no objections to him being a card-holder. I was just curious, that’s all … I thought perhaps you had been speaking to him,” Chacko said. “But I’m sure he’s just experimenting, testing his wings, he’s a sensible fellow, comrade. I trust him …”

  “Not like that,” Comrade Pillai said. “He may be very well okay as a person. But other workers are not happy with him. Already they are coming to me with complaints. You see, comrade, from local standpoint, these caste issues are very deep-rooted.”

  Kalyani put a steel tumbler of steaming coffee on the table for her husband.

  “See her, for example. Mistress of this house. Even she will never allow Paravans and all that into her house. Never. Even I cannot persuade her. My own wife. Of course inside the house she is Boss.” He turned to her with an affectionate, naughty smile. “Allay edi, Kalyani?”

  Kalyani looked down and smiled, coyly acknowledging her bigotry.

  “You see?” Comrade Pillai said triumphantly. “She understands English very well. Only doesn’t speak.”

  Chacko smiled halfheartedly.

  “You say my workers are coming to you with complaints …”

  “Oh yes, correct,” Comrade Pillai said.

  “Anything specific?”

  “Nothing specifically as such,” Comrade K. N. M. Pillai said. “But see, comrade, any benefits that you give him, naturally others are resenting it. They see it as a partiality. After all, whatever job he does, carpenter or electrician or whateveritis, for them he is just a Paravan. It is a conditioning they have from birth. This I myself have told them is wrong. But frankly speaking, comrade, Change is one thing. Acceptance is another. You should be cautious. Better for him you send him off.”